Osian could never afford their careless bluster, so he watched whilst they did not, listened whilst they spoke.
So, he knew the general silhouette of his brother’s ambitions. Knew the hands that directed the strings, even as they rose to chests to offer oaths and bow to him. He knew the mouths that whispered, and what they said, behind his back and behind his door. He had never much cared to listen, only to file away, academically.
Until they had realised he finally had something they could use against him.
Meilyr.
Meilyr, sat at his side, struggling with his piled plate of food. Meilyr, whom Osian had torn from safe obscurity, into the maw of the beast.
With one hand, Osian had moved to protect him, to shield him with oaths of safety. With the other, he had inadvertently made him a target for every murmur and malcontent who could not overtly strike at Osian. He had declared what had always, before, been a secret – an empty space:Here is what can wound me. Here is what I care for.
If he had had the foresight to look beyond the panic of Meilyr’s presence in that street, he might have spared him so much.
Feeling his gaze, Meilyr looked at him: hesitant, but easier than Osian could once have dreamed of. He had been on sharper edge than usual: the minute tremor in his slim fingers, the reflexive need to wring them; the cornered wildness behind his eyes.
Osian could not blame him. At least half the court suspected him, and someone with access to the castle had killed Lord Leighton and Kenelm Radnor.
Thatkiss. That relief on Meilyr’s face when he had swept into Osian’s rooms tonight before dinner, as though truly thankful to see him.
He had to stop thinking about it. Filed it away with all the other things he could not think about.
‘Are you all right, My Prince?’
Quiet, and genuine. Ruinous.
‘Very much so,’ he lied, overcome by the desire to brush that loose curl back behind Meilyr’s ear. ‘I think we will not tarry long tonight. Is there something you would prefer to eat?’
It was a bad day for Meilyr’s nerves; even the bread was all but untouched.
‘Thank you, but this is fine. I am ready to retire when you are.’
‘Are you plotting to abandon me?’ Aldreda elbowed Osian. ‘I’ll consider it treason.’
‘Do you not also wish to escape?’ He picked up his goblet and drank more tart wine.
‘Naturally, but since your coronation and peace with the Marches hinge on us pretending we have everything under control, I thought we could try that. Another drink, please!’
Goblets refilled, she settled back in her chair. ‘One week until the blessing ceremony, less than two weeks until your birthday and the coronation proper. Don’t get me wrong, I love a celebration, but why we can’t just crown you now and get it over with, I have no idea.’ She took a long, frustrated drink. ‘What about a reward? Anyone with information can receive a hearty sack of gold.’
‘That will only lead to chaos,’ Osian said. ‘Neighbours outing neighbours for minor inconveniences. It happened to Great-Grandfather, if you recall.’
‘Rats and ballsacks, you’re right. As usual.’
Osian cleared his dry throat. ‘It could have been a good idea.’
‘Don’t coddle me, or I’ll trounce you. Regardless, this is no place to discuss it. It’s just ridiculous, and now we have crownsworn acting like thugs.’
She downed more wine, and Osian did the same to settle the building embers of discomfort in his stomach.
‘You made the right call, by the way,’ she said, quieter. ‘I don’t think I would have the strength to let them walk out of the courtyard in one piece, but you handled it better.’
‘Tread carefully, that was almost a compliment.’
‘Do not push your luck.’
‘Thugs,’ Wystan mused, staring into his wine.
Osian put his down. He handled his drink well, but this was particularly heady, pinching at his chest. The edges of the hall.